Editor's Letter

Mad Men

peter flax

(Photo by Jason Gould)

The street was quiet. I could hear myself exhale as I pedaled a false flat on Jordan Road. I’d left home with no plan, but as I meandered I began fashioning a loop of four of the five covered bridges that span Jordan Creek. All I wanted was two hours at 14 mph; the kids had been nuts and I needed to unwind. So far, so good.

I crested the rise and flew toward bridge number three. I glanced over my shoulder and saw that the road was clear. When I entered the bridge 30 seconds later, the slats looked slick and the road behind me was not clear. Though I’m ­always nervous about the cracks in these bridges, the way they can eat a 23mm tire, I snuck a peek because I could feel the rumbling. A big blue Ford pickup sat a bike length off my wheel. Even at a crawl I could get through the bridge in about 10 seconds, but that was too long for the driver. He leaned into his horn the whole way through the bridge then hollered “Get the #$* off the road!” as he motored off.

I have learned from experience that it’s best not to give guys in big pickups the finger, especially when wearing spandex tights. And lobster gloves. That doesn’t mean I wasn’t riled. What the hell was that guy’s problem?

Actually, I have a good guess about that. I drive every day, and I grind my teeth as people clog the left lane on the highway, or flick cigarette butts out their windows, or dawdle on local roads when I’m running late. Then there’s the $913 heating-oil delivery I just got, the endless deadline pressure at work, and the hours of my life spent waiting on hold for a customer service rep to not help me. It seems impossible that any of us can get through a day without tasting venom in our mouths.

But why are cyclists so frequently targets for those venting their venom? Sure, there are bonehead riders who are poor emissaries for the sport. And we can seem annoying without truly threatening drivers. Plus, the growth of our numbers and our demands for a bigger share of the roads alarm some people. For these and other reasons, cyclists have become a socially acceptable outlet for anger.

I won’t pretend I know exactly what to do about this, but I believe cyclists need to maintain a levelheaded sense of outrage. I recently attended a local memorial ride for Patrick Ytsma, a 53-year-old architect and father of two who was hit and killed during his evening bike commute by a 79-year-old woman (even though he was illuminated like a Christmas tree). Even with hundreds of cyclists and a police escort clearly indicating a solemn event was occuring, a few drivers beeped and yelled at the brief gridlock. I felt like tapping on their windows and telling them that I’m the one who should be angry. Riders are getting killed across the country, and, in many cases, no charges are filed—and you’re chafed about exactly what?

I felt a similar rush of frustration as I turned right off the covered bridge onto a narrow road called Horseshoe. As the road tilted up, I could feel my heart rate rise and anger subside. You can, of course, relieve stress by doing squats or mile repeats or hot-yoga poses, but only when you ride are the trauma and treatment so intimately connected.

After about a mile, Horseshoe arcs through a grove of trees that reminds me of riding in the Bay Area, where you can descend into the prehistoric shade of redwoods. It is hard to pedal through this spot without feeling a little calmer. After that, the road climbs in earnest, with three uphill stretches, each steeper than the last. I didn’t feel like riding easy any more. I didn’t think about the guy in the pickup or about what Zillow says my house is worth or how my stress was easing with each pedal stroke. I just got out of the saddle and wrestled up that last 16 percent pitch.

I paused for a minute at the top, forearms on my handlebar, and listened to myself breathe. Otherwise the world was quiet. I clipped in and finished the ride.